


War of the Ring: Deleted Scenes and Abandoned Concepts

by morwen_of_gondor, Mr_Bultitude



Series: The War of the Ring [2]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bonding Over Stories, Brotherly Love, Crack, Deleted Scenes, Duelling, Epic Battles, Gen, Humor, Male Friendship, Story within a Story, a brief excursion into, for some parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23346211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwen_of_gondor/pseuds/morwen_of_gondor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Bultitude/pseuds/Mr_Bultitude
Summary: Content forThe War of the Ringthat either didn't make it into the main work or was considered and abandoned. AKA "The Appendices".
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Denethor II & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Curufin | Curufinwë & Merry Brandybuck, Denethor II & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Elrond Peredhel & Glorfindel, Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee, Maedhros | Maitimo & Frodo Baggins, Maedhros | Maitimo & Sauron | Mairon, Maglor | Makalaurë & Bilbo Baggins
Series: The War of the Ring [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679146
Comments: 86
Kudos: 120





	1. Deleted Scene: Maglor & Bilbo

**Author's Note:**

> Note on nomenclature: Deleted scenes are obviously canon for the main story but weren't included. Alternate scenes are also canon for the main story, but cover events that we saw happen, just from a different perspective. Abandoned concepts are ways that this AU could have gone but didn't - AUs of the AU, if you will. All chapters will be labelled with which one they are.
> 
> Unlike WOTR, this does not even have a theoretical update schedule. Scenes will be added as the muse strikes now that the main story is over. 
> 
> Also, I am open to ideas for this story; the number of chapters is not fixed, and if there was a conversation or scene you wanted to see in the main story that didn't happen, or a scene that you think should have gone differently, let me know via comment. I do not promise to write the suggested scenes, but I will at least consider doing so.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The afternoon after the Council of Elrond, Maglor and Bilbo talk about Hobbits, the Shire, and adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am horribly behind on _The War of the Ring_ , though I am trying to fix that, so have a deleted scene while I'm wrestling Chapter 11 of WOTR into shape.

As the afternoon drew on, Maglor found himself wandering the corridors of the Last Homely House rather aimlessly, as though he were looking for something, yet did not know what it was he sought. Elrond had disappeared to organise the great feast that was to be held that night, and Maedhros had, he thought, betaken himself to the library. Celegorm and Caranthir were deep in conversation with the Man of Gondor and the Dwarves, respectively. Amrod and Amras were simply nowhere to be found indoors, though that did not surprise him.

In the end, his feet carried him to a small balcony that overlooked a fair garden, lit by the rich golden light of the setting sun. He thought himself alone at first, until a small and wizened figure seated on a bench greeted him with a cheerful, "Good evening!"

"Good evening!" Maglor replied instinctively, and looked down to meet the bright eyes of Bilbo Baggins. The old hobbit had said little at the council, though Maglor had seen him watching the discussions intently. On an impulse, he asked, "May I join you?"

"Of course!" Bilbo replied, moving over on his bench to make room. "This is a pleasant place to sit in the evenings, though it’s not much like the Shire. Or perhaps it is like, even though it doesn’t look alike. Gardens are all gardens, you know."

"The Shire?" Maglor asked.

"My home," Bilbo said, "or it was for most of my life, though sometimes I seem to be more at home here, now."

"Forgive me, but I had never heard of it before this morning, and I still know very little of it."

"Most people haven’t heard of it at all; my folk have never been much for the sort of deeds that would put us into history books. It’s a quiet place, and perhaps that’s how it’s like Rivendell. Unexpected things very rarely happen there, though they did to me, and it seems that they do to my nephew as well, and he didn’t ask for them. Though I suppose I didn’t exactly ask for old Gandalf to turn up at my door with thirteen dwarves who all thought I was some sort of master burglar! Still, I went along of my own will, in the end, and he doesn’t seem to have had much of a choice, what with being hunted by these Ringwraiths."

"Elrond and the dwarves both spoke of an affair with a dragon. Is that how it began? Burgling dragons is a dangerous trade, Master Hobbit," he added with a smile.

"So it is, though it could hardly be called my _trade_ , as I only ever did it once. Oh yes, that’s how it began — though rather it began earlier that week, in the afternoon, when Gandalf came and said he was _looking for someone to share in an adventure_ , and I foolishly invited him to tea after saying I didn’t want any adventures! He did turn up to tea, after I had quite forgotten inviting him, but he sent the dwarves along first, and I was _altogether bewildered and bewuthered_ , and thought that _a most unpleasant adventure had come right into my house!_ Not that I knew anything of adventures in those days, or of unpleasantness. I was a nice, comfortable, stay-at-home, respectable Baggins, with not a bit of a Took in me, or so I thought. The Tooks had always been the adventurous sort, you know, and my mother was no exception, but my father was one hundred percent Baggins, not an adventurous bone in his body. I suppose I took after my mother, in the end, for all that my cousins always used to say I looked like a second version of my father."

Maglor knew the signs of a bard beginning his tale, and listened expectantly for the story to be continued. Finding himself with an attentive audience, Bilbo launched into his story, beginning with the unexpected tea party, though the Battle of Five Armies, and all the way back to the Shire again, finishing with, "And so I had to buy back most of my belongings just to save time, and it was a good thing that I’d brought all that gold back with me after all, or I don’t know what I should have done. I never did find all my silver spoons, and I do believe that my cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins must have taken them. I gave her the rest of the set when I left Bag End, and I hope she’s happy with them. And that was quite the end of the tale until now, except that Gandalf came by a few years later with Balin, and we had quite a nice chat together. 

"I never dreamed of all the trouble that Ring would cause, you know, or I’d never have left Frodo with it — or no, I suppose I would have, as Gandalf didn’t leave me much choice over that. I might have tried to give it to him, but Frodo tried that too, and he wouldn’t have it, so leave it I suppose I would have done in any case. Still, I wish it hadn’t been him, poor lad. He’s fallen into an adventure, all right, as he always dreamed, but it’s not the sort of adventure I’d wish on anyone."

"Nor I," Maglor answered. "But he has friends to help him, as you did, and they will do all in their power to see him accomplish his errand in safety."

Bilbo nodded silently, but said nothing, and Maglor respected his silence. After a little while, the sun, which had slowly been disappearing behind the dim western horizon, slipped below the edge of the valley, and the garden was thrown into darkness. Bilbo roused himself, and turning to Maglor, said, "That means that supper will be soon, and I don’t mean to miss the grandest feast that Lord Elrond has put together in I don’t know how many years. Thank you for your company, Master Elf, and for listening to an old hobbit’s prattling."

"To the tales of a great adventurer, I would say, Master Hobbit. Lead on to supper, then!"


	2. Alternate Scene: Curufin & Merry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just before the crebain discover his party, Curufin reflects on hobbits and childhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've already posted this week, but have an alternate scene anyway. Consider it amends for my terrible posting schedule lately.

"I," said a voice that seemed to be coming from the ground, "am going to _sleep_."

Curufin turned away from the damp wood, courtesy of Celegorm, which was putting up a valiant resistance to all attempts to light it, to see that one of the strange short Men who called themselves "Hobbits" was lying on the ground, not having troubled to do anything except remove his pack, and seemed to be about to suit the action to the word. Curufin was rather surprised by this. Their march had been rather slow even by mortal standards, or he had thought it so, and they had halted earlier than usual that day, but then it had been millennia since Curufin had needed to attend even to the needs of his own _hröa_ , much less consider the needs of mortals, and perhaps even the Younger Children had faded somewhat with the years. 

He had never shared Finrod’s fondness for Men or his desire to learn everything about their culture and lives, though he had seen enough of them in battle to respect them both as allies and as enemies. After the Nirnaeth he had been far more wary; any Man who still lived after that battle was more likely to be a traitor than an ally.

Hobbits, however, sometimes quite defied all the expectations he had learned in his dealings with the Men of the First Age. Frodo and Sam were most often quiet and grim, which he did not find strange; most of the mortals he had met had been so. Had Curufin not heard their tale at the Council and known them to have come from a peaceful land, he would have thought Frodo a commander of some army of Halflings, and Sam his aide or second-in-command. Sam had the air of one who looks after another who cannot or will not look after himself, which Curufin had often seen on Maglor’s face as he watched Maedhros, and Frodo the look of one who faces a burden that he once thought unbearable, yet finds himself bearing it all the same. Merry and Pippin, however, reminded him more of the Ambarussar in Valinor than of any Men he had ever met before. They had been stern and serious enough at the Council, as they declared their intention to follow their…cousin? Curufin was not certain of their relationship to Frodo — wherever he should go, regardless of the danger. On the journey, however, though they kept up well enough with the leaders, the two hobbits kept up a running stream of complaints, questions, and irrelevant chatter. 

As he thought, he had been carefully shredding the damp grass which was to serve as tinder into small fragments and arranging them under some of the smallest twigs, preparatory to attempting to light the fire once again. The thought of fire and Ambarussa, however, brought a train of memories to the surface of his mind that he had not recalled for millennia: a night in Valinor before the Darkening, building a fire of driftwood on the shores near Alqualondë with only Celegorm and his two younger brothers for company, away from Nerdanel and Maedhros’ watchful eyes. It had been a great adventure for the four children then, to be outside the ring of the Pelóri, sitting in the shadows and watching the leaping light of the flames, so very different from the unfaltering gold and silver light of the Trees. There had been no fear of darkness in Valinor in those days, not among those who were too young, as they were, to remember the great journey to Valinor and the days beside Cuiviénen, when evil had walked the woods and dogged the footsteps of the young Quendi, and so they had not been afraid to fall asleep around the embers of their dying fires, rolled up in blankets against the chill of the night air coming off of the sea.

Curufin glanced back at Merry, and saw that the hobbit had gone to sleep without so much as unpacking his bedroll. The air was chill, for it was drawing towards night, and, with a shake of his head at the foolishness of mortals, Curufin draped his heavy wool cloak over the sleeping hobbit before he turned back to lighting the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have taken the place of the little scene in Chapter 6 where Pippin talks to Maglor.


	3. Deleted Scene: Elrond & Glorfindel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Rivendell, Elrond and Glorfindel prepare to march to war, discuss where their aid will be needed most, and pick up some reinforcements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene begins shortly after the departure of the Fellowship(s).

Elrond was looking out over Bilbo’s favourite garden, wondering why it was that things always happened so rapidly, after so many years or centuries of patient waiting, when he heard a light step behind him, and turned to see Glorfindel watching him with a knowing smile on his face. "What is that mortal saying again? A penny for your thoughts?"

"You know quite well that it is," Elrond retorted mildly. "I was thinking of how the world always changes so quickly. A week ago, we were attempting to plan ways of sending the Enemy’s Ring into Mordor undetected, preferably before he was ready to begin his war. Now we are planning a war of our own, under the greatest, dead, general of the First Age." Elrond shook his head wonderingly, then added, "Did I mention that he was dead?"

"I was dead once," Glorfindel observed with equal mildness. "But I am not your father."

Elrond smiled wryly, and said, "I do not think that you came here to discuss my remarkably complicated family, or said family’s suddenly renewed propensity for not staying dead."

"As a matter of fact, I did not." Glorfindel did not elaborate on this statement, however, joining Elrond in gazing at the garden instead. 

Elrond respected his silence, knowing that Glorfindel would say what he was thinking soon enough. He was correct. As though he had made a decision, Glorfindel turned back to Elrond, and said, "Rivendell’s forces are small, but not negligible. If we march out to battle, we may turn the tide. If we remain here until our allies are overrun, we will have no hope of holding out alone."

"My thoughts on the matter were much the same," Elrond replied. "And, as a matter of fact, I wished to hear your counsel on where we might be of the greatest use."

Glorfindel smiled in relief. "Gondor, I would say," he answered.

"It is probable that they will receive the brunt of the Enemy’s wrath, true, but they have a stronghold to which to retreat. What of Rohan? They are a people who live in the open, on the plains, and they have not the supplies for a siege."

"Rohan lies along the way."

"Truly spoken! Very well then. To Gondor, by way of Rohan, we will march. But, I think, we will wait for Aragorn’s kinsmen to arrive ere we depart."

"The Dúnedain ride to war once more?"

"Those who remain, yes. Aragorn sent messages to them before he departed. They will come as soon as they may, with all their folk that can be gathered."

"That is well. They are a doughty people. How soon do you think they will arrive?"

"They are _a scattered people,_ and so it may be some weeks ere they can gather their forces."

"Can we wait so long, do you think?"

Elrond considered. "It will take the people of Rivendell some time to prepare to march to war, for we have not done so in an age — perhaps two weeks if all is to be as ready as possible. If, after the third week, the Dúnedain have not arrived, we will march without them and leave messages."

"Let it be so, then."

As things fell out, the Dúnedain arrived just in time: near the end of the third week, sixty grey-clad men on rough-coated horses came riding into Rivendell, led by Halbarad. Soon after, they rode out again, now beside a column of elves, seven hundred strong, led by Lord Elrond and Glorfindel. Halbarad, who rode at the fore beside the commanders of Rivendell, bore a furled black standard wrought by the hand of Arwen Úndomiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any of you wondering why Glorfindel looks so relieved when Elrond agrees to march out, he was having a bit of a flashback to Turgon, whom Elrond resembles quite a bit, steadfastly refusing to help anybody or leave Gondolin. Elrond, however, being Elrond and therefore sensible, did the smart thing and agreed that they needed to help their friends.


	4. Deleted Scene: Celegorm & Boromir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Rivendell, Celegorm and Boromir discuss hunting, Orcs, and despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update on WOTR is probably not happening this week, sorry. The muse ran off and I have a lot of actual work to do. This conversation wanted to be written, though, so here you go.

"This is strange beyond our wildest hopes," Boromir said, "that out of the Elder Days help should come to Gondor. There are those, true, who have always held that the King would return: but you, my lords, no tale has prepared us for! Nevertheless, you almost give me hope. To Gondor I will take you, my lord Maedhros: may my father welcome us!"

Maedhros met Boromir’s eyes and gave him a measured nod of acknowledgement. Then he turned his attention to the question of the Ring, and his keen gaze to Frodo. Boromir leaned against the map table that Elrond’s aide had produced from he knew not where, and gazed down at the dot of ink that marked Minas Tirith, wondering what strange world he had entered as he journeyed from his city to this strange house hidden behind the Misty Mountains, where legends walked and those long thought dead returned. He listened with half an ear as the Halfling who had brought the Ring offered to bear it to Mordor. When it was suggested that the Ring go with only two companions, he protested, and found himself supported by the Lord Elrond, but it seemed that Elrond was eager for the council to end, for the discussion was set aside to be resumed at a later time.

Looking around the room, Boromir found quite a number of faces that looked as perplexed as he felt. Clearly, the counsellors of Elrond’s house had not entirely recovered from the initial surprise of their visitors’ arrival, and Legolas of Mirkwood could not wholly hide his expression of mingled awe and fear. Before he could see what the four Halflings were making of these latest developments, a hand descended suddenly on his shoulder. Boromir started, but caught himself in time and turned slowly rather than whirling to face the one who had accosted him. He found himself facing Celegorm Fëanorion, who was gazing at him with interest. Recalling his manners, Boromir bowed and made shift to introduce himself, but Celegorm gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and said, "I know who you are and you know who I am, and that’s all that matters."

Uncertain where he stood, Boromir simply nodded, but Celegorm seemed to have forgotten whatever he was going to say, and was gazing at nothing in particular, his face set in harsh, mournful lines. "You wished to speak to me?" Boromir finally asked.

"You have fought the Enemy long," Celegorm said in return.

"Yes."

"When did you lose hope of winning?"

Boromir straightened in defiance, ready to snap out that they _still_ had hope, they always _would_ have hope, and he would not give up, when Celegorm met his eyes squarely, and there he read grief and understanding, yet not pity. His shoulders slumped, and he said softly, "In my father’s time, I think. I have never been sure when we truly lost the war — perhaps there was no one time, and in any case that is a question for Faramir — but we first knew it then. I first knew it when I was fifteen, and realised that no matter how many battles we won, our borders were still shrinking and shrinking, and there was nothing I or anyone else could do to stop it."

"I know what it is to fight a superior foe without hope," Celegorm said. "And I know the strength that comes from despair, as yours does." Boromir opened his mouth to protest again, but he remembered the weight of old grief in Celegorm’s eyes and closed it again, and the elf continued, "Mithrandir says that _despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt, and we do not._ "

He halted here, but Boromir felt that the thought was unfinished, and asked, "And what do you say?"

"I say that if it gives you strength, let it, but _do not_ let it drive you to foolishness. Do not let it drive you to do what you know to be wrong." His gaze, which had wandered away from Boromir’s, returned, and seemed to pin the Man to the wall with its intensity, and his voice took on a harshness that was a sharp contrast to the melodious tones that Boromir was accustomed to think of elven voices as possessing. "I did. I paid. If your despair tells you to murder to make your path easier, spurn it. If it bids you steal, or kidnap, or even do something as small as lie to or use a friend, cast it from you, no matter how much you think you stand to gain. In short, your despair will tell you to use the Enemy’s own weapons to defeat his lieutenant. Do not heed it."

Boromir, indignant, burst out, "As though I would in my darkest hour think of such a thing! How dare you?"

Celegorm smiled a smile without mirth. "Would you not?"

Boromir’s denial died on his lips for the third time. _Use the Enemy’s own weapons to defeat his lieutenant…_ Was that not what he was suggesting with the Ring? _That is different,_ he tried to say, and yet even in his mind the words rang false, though he could not say why. "To use the Ring is not even to deceive a friend," he finally exclaimed.

"No. It is worse. It is to take to yourself Thauron’s malice, his will to dominate, his cruelty, and then claim that you still fight him. It is to do orc-work and say that you defend what is good." 

Boromir recoiled from Celegorm’s deadly seriousness and turned away his eyes, but said grimly, "I see no other way."

"Neither did I, when the blood of my kin ran red from my sword," Celegorm replied. "Neither did any of us. And we bled, and our people died, and the First Age fell down in ruins. I failed all my brothers. I did kill friends, because it was the easy thing to do and they stood between me and the fulfilment of my oath. I took the Enemy’s weapons and used them to do what I told myself was best. I ignored the collateral damage. And then, in the end, I found that I was like him. Trust me when I say that it is better to have a good defeat than a victory won by such means."

"Then there truly is no hope," Boromir said, bowing his head.

"I did not say that," Celegorm retorted. "There is hope still, or did you not listen to my brother? We faced Thauron’s master in the First Age, and for five hundred years we held him back. I think we can deal with his lieutenant." He clapped Boromir on the shoulder again, and almost against his own will, Boromir felt something more like hope than he had felt for years creep back into his heart.

"I hope that you and I have the chance to hunt Orcs together, Celegorm Fëanorion," Boromir said.

Celegorm, for the first time since Boromir had seen him, gave him a genuine, if slightly wolfish, smile. "It would be my pleasure. That hunt, I suspect, is one thing that has not changed with the years, though all the lands are made new."

Boromir matched the wolfish smile with one of his own. "Some things never change, and one of them is that such journeys as ours do not go smoothly. Perhaps we will draw blades together sooner than we might wish." 

Celegorm did not look terribly perturbed at the prospect. Boromir found that he could not muster much trepidation either. "I suppose we should be ready," he added. "Spar?"

Celegorm’s smile widened. Boromir had the feeling that he might have bitten off more than he could chew, but he was not about to back out now. In any case, had been a long time since he had met a man who could beat him handily, and Boromir had always learned best from the teachers who wiped the floor with him and then showed him how they had done it. He found that he was looking forward to the challenge.

A few minutes later, having gotten directions from Elrond’s steward, they were both equipped with blunt training swords and light shields, and faced each other across a short field of smooth sand. At an unspoken signal, Celegorm sprang across the arena with startling swiftness, and swung viciously at Boromir’s head, driving his shield forward to keep the Man from countering his momentum, and Boromir concluded that both his feelings had been absolutely right: Celegorm was going to wipe the floor with him, and they were both going to enjoy every minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Boromir's Ring-lust gets brought to the surface pretty quickly here, and it looks (because the narrative is from his POV) like Celegorm has been angling to bring it to the fore for the whole conversation, without actually having gotten any information that would tell him that Boromir wants the ring. In actuality, Boromir is a slightly unreliable narrator on that point. Celegorm started this conversation out as a pep talk, because Boromir is the most discouraged person in the room at this point, and then decided to give a bit of advice from his own experience, saw that Boromir was responding oddly, and decided to probe. Boromir isn't a terribly good liar, not about things that are as emotionally charged as the Ring issue, so it wasn't hard to press him until he admitted what he was thinking.


	5. Alternate Scene: Cûlegyr & Dúrin's Bane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cûlegyr of Lórien watches Amrod face the Balrog, gets in on the action himself, and tries to hold his archers together under an overwhelming assault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I created Cûlegyr because I needed a named character to captain the soldiers of Lorien under Amrod and couldn't use Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin for everything, and then I found myself liking him when he casually mentioned to me that he’d shattered his sword on the Balrog’s arm, so here is some of his POV. Hopefully this will make up for the fact that the muse ran away from WOTR and so there will be no update on that this week.
> 
> This would have taken the place of Amrod's POV in the Balrog fight.

Captain Cûlegyr of Lórien stared grimly at the orcs that were marching towards his positions in rank after ordered rank, led by a creature that he had never expected to see outside of a nightmare. The Balrog that had been the bane of Dúrin Longbeard strode far ahead of its troops on long, smoking legs, as evil, red flames curled around its head like windblown hair and wings of shadow curled up from its back to block out the stars. From the serried ranks of archers, the strange flame-haired Golodh who had been put in command of Cûlegyr’s defensive lines by Lord Celeborn himself strode forward to meet it.

"Son of Fëanor," the Balrog said, "so you have come to meet your father’s doom."

Cûlegyr remembered, with a start, that Faenor was said to have been slain by the seven Balrogs of Morgoth, but before he had time to think more on it, Amrod replied, "No, I have come to avenge him."

The Balrog laughed — a terrible sound — and raised its arm to strike. As though that were a signal, the orcs broke ranks and poured towards the waiting elves like a foul, black river. Cûlegyr fitted an arrow to his bow without bothering to aim, for he was sure of a target wherever his arrow landed, and called, "Loose!" to his archers.

A rain of arrows fell upon the charging orcs, and then another. Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, Cûlegyr caught flashes of flames and flashes of fire-red hair as Amrod duelled the Balrog. Once its flaming whip passed over Amrod’s head to find a mark among Cûlegyr’s guardsmen. Then Amrod went flying overhead, whether hurled or kicked, and the Balrog, unobstructed, waded into the lines of the defenders. Cûlegyr roared in rage as its flaming sword cut great swathes out of the ranks of his men, and charged towards the beast, but Amrod, though he was limping now, was faster, and as he countered the Balrog’s sword-cut, its blade shattered into gleaming fragments. A moment later, as he snapped the neck of an orc that had been foolish enough to come within arm’s reach, he heard the Balrog’s bellow of rage and pain and the loud cheering of the guards who had the breath for it, and guessed that Lord Amrod’s blade had found a mark. Then an uprooted tree came crashing towards him, courtesy of the Balrog’s whip and followed by the second wave of orcs, and Cûlegyr had no more time to watch Amrod. He sprang forward, ducking through the ranks of orcs before they could do more than stare at him in surprise, determined that it should kill no more of his men without facing him, and brought his sword down on its whip-arm, hard. The blade snapped in two.

Cûlegyr stared down at the hilt in his hand for an instant, then hurled it to the ground. He hated to flee from any foe, but he knew that he would do more good protecting his men from the orcs than he could do by dying at the Balrog’s hands. He ducked away from the flaming whip, and found himself in the midst of yet more orcs. This, he could deal with, he thought grimly, drawing his knives.

It was some time before the orcs realised that, with no sword, he was at a distinct disadvantage when it came to mid-range weapons, and and sent spearmen to deal with him. By that time, his arrows were all spent and his arms were weary. He had slain and slain and stamped out fire wherever he went, and yet still the orcs came on and the fires spread. There was no hope of stopping the Balrog now, only of keeping out of its way a little longer and slowing the oncoming orcs a little more. Cûlegyr sent a brief prayer to Mandos and braced himself for the end, and then amid the smoke and flames and spears he saw a flash of red hair and bright steel, and Amrod Fëanorion stood beside him. Once the orcs were driven back for a little, he turned to Cûlegyr and said, "Captain, we cannot hold here. You must send word to Celeborn. The Balrog is coming, and he will be caught between the hammer and the anvil. We must go."

His words only confirmed what Cûlegyr had known already: even Amrod could not deal both with the Balrog and the multitude of orcs. Turning towards the men who followed him, he saw that their number had nearly doubled and realised that Amrod must have picked up his own following. Among the newcomers, he caught a familiar face, and called out to the messenger, "Pethhenid, you must carry word to the Lord of Lórien that the defences are breached! Hurry!" Pethhenid gave a quick nod and, slashing at an orc that barred his way, raced away to the south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golodhrim is a Sindarin term for the Noldor, but it is fairly neutral compared to the somewhat insulting term Òdhellim (Exiles).
> 
> Faenor is the proper Sindarin spelling of Fëanor. Technically, the name "Fëanor" is a blend of Sindarin Faenor and Quenya Fëanaro. Cûlegyr is a thorough Sindar, so he uses the pure Sindarin version rather than the odd mixed one that Tolkien primarily chose.


	6. Deleted Scene: Dagor Aglareb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor tells the tale of the Dagor Aglareb, with commentary by Curufin and an interjection from Maedhros.
> 
> This is a scene that was mentioned in "The Gap of Rohan," where Maglor fulfils his promise to tell a story for Pippin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still planning to post a new chapter of WOTR on Wednesday, but this wanted to be written first, so here it is.

It took some time for all the members of the party to be quite comfortable after the _crebain_ had flown overhead, though the excellent meal prepared by Sam and Curufin did a good deal to help with this, especially for the hobbits. After dinner had been eaten and washed up, but before anyone was quite ready to go to bed, Maglor turned to Pippin and said inquiringly, "I believe that I promised you a tale, Peregrin."

Pippin looked up hopefully; he had expected Maglor to forget about that in all the excitement and worry that had followed the arrival of the _crebain_. "If it’s not too much trouble."

"Very well then," said Maglor with a smile. "This is the tale of the Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle, third of the great battles of the War of the Jewels in the First Age. It was in the sixtieth year of the Sun. Maedhros had yielded the High Kingship of the Noldor to our uncle, Fingolfin. Morgoth and all his creatures had been driven underground at the first rising of Isil and Anar — the Moon and the Sun in your speech — but now they were beginning to issue forth again and trouble the lands about Angband, and then a great host issued forth to strike against Dorthonion."

Then his voice changed and deepened, and the light of memory kindled in his eyes. "Thus once I told this tale to the Men who rode the plains of the Gap with me," he said, and he began to chant, softly.  
_Into dark Dorthonion, under deep shadows  
Forth stole the fell folk of Morgoth.  
Against them Angrod and Aegnor battled,  
Fathered by faithful Finarfin the Golden.  
Strong and steadfast stood Angrod,  
Champion [1] proven by plentiful strife;  
Fierce was he called Fell-Fire, [2] Aegnor,  
Blazing and bold in terrible fight.  
But stronger than such was the sorcery of Thauron,  
Stinking [3] servant to savage Morgoth.  
The long line 'twixt lowering trees  
Held and held 'gainst Iron-Hell’s [4] armies  
In bruit of battle, but no more.  
For aid called Angrod against Morgoth.  
From the sun-forthing, Fingolfin, their liege  
Came swift to the succour of his fair kinsmen.  
Eager to the aid of Aegnor, westward  
Maedhros the mighty, master of Himring  
Wended his way with speed._

Pippin listened with wide eyes. He had heard Maglor sing before, in the Hall of Fire before they departed from Rivendell, but that had been the clear and lyrical music of the Elves that soared up into the night-sky and hung, glistening, like stars to the ear. Such music woke longing and grief and hope, but it did not rouse the blood to battle. Even his song of rejoicing had been sung in Quenya, a language that flowed like water. This was a music altogether different — quicker, more rhythmic, with a pulse like a drum or the thud of marching feet as armies hastened into battle. It called out to something in his blood that hearkened back to Bandobras the Bullroarer who had driven the Orcs from the Shire so long ago, something that he had thought must have skipped him completely when he hid cowering from the Nazgûl on Weathertop. For the first time since he had left the Shire, the thought came to him that he was on an Adventure, like Uncle Bilbo, and the perils he might face would be part of a story worth telling.

Maglor sang on.  
_Dwimmer-crafty Doriath no defenders sent.  
From willows and waters, weeping Ossiriand  
Forthed to fierce fighting no more,  
Lamenting their lord lying slain.  
Círdan, crafty [5] chief of the Sea-Elves,  
Fiercely fighting, fended the Orcs  
Far from the Falas, fairest havens._

Legolas’ eyes grew wide at that, for Círdan was a name he knew well. "Círdan?" he whispered to Gandalf, who sat beside him.

"The same who rules the Havens today, yes," Gandalf whispered back. "Now be silent and heed the singing."

_Eastward and westward, swift as the hammer  
Hastes to hit the heavy anvil,  
Moulding the molten metal between them,  
To dark Dorthonion defenders came.  
Fear fell heavy on the foul orc-folk:  
Sunlight shone on swords like forge-fire,  
Orcs like ore were pounded and beaten.  
Back to Angband in bootless retreat  
Plunged and pelted the people of Morgoth.  
Ranks rent into racing fragments  
By battering blades bleated in terror.  
Hunted by horsemen and haunted by fear,  
Back toward Bauglir’s black fortress  
Hopeless and helpless the hunted orc-folk  
Greeted the gates of grim Mandos.  
Down to doom and death they went,  
And Valinoreans [6] their victory vaunted in joy._

"I have only one quarrel with your song, my brother," Maedhros said with a gleam in his eye when Maglor had ended his chanting. "You have left off the leader of your hunting horsemen."

Maglor looked rather indignant at that. "I have not. Fingolfin led the hosts from the east and you from the west."

"I said the horseman, not the host."

"He means," Curufin added, "that Maglor was always commander of our cavalry, though he has never been pleased to own the renown he earned."

"I was not finished," Maglor said testily, and his brothers fell silent, smiling.

"Not one of the orcs escaped, in the end. Their host was utterly destroyed before the very gates of Morgoth’s fortress, and our losses were light. For four hundred years after we held the leaguer of Angband, and no foul creature dared to venture out over the green plains of Ard-galen."

"What happened after that?" Pippin asked.

Maglor’s face fell, and Maedhros’ hardened into the likeness of a stone mask. "Something of which we will not speak tonight," Gandalf said. "There is a time for tales of grief, but it is not now. Let us rejoice in the tales of victory, for though it could not last forever, for four hundred years your ancestors, Peregrin," he added, glancing at Pippin from under bushy eyebrows, "lived in safety in their river-bank dwellings because of the valour of the Noldor. Were it not for the battle of which you have just heard, none of you, perhaps, would be here now, and our plight would be sore indeed."

And he took off his hat and bowed to the Sons of Fëanor, who rose and bowed to him in return with surprised and grateful faces. The sun, however, had properly set by now, and the Fellowship was not long in preparing to sleep. Maglor took the first watch, singing softly to himself in Quenya, a mournful tune that made Frodo’s eyes turn sad and Gandalf bow his head. Maedhros sat silent beside him so that their shoulders touched, and together they watched the stars of Varda wheel overhead as the dusk deepened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry by yours truly in imitation of Tolkien's alliterative verse, because Maglor, demanding diva that he is, was too good to tell the story in plain prose and insisted on poetry. (And now I'm alliterating by accident and I can't stop. Send help. Maglor, shut up.) 
> 
> [1] Angrod's name means "champion".  
> [2] Aegnor's means "Fell-Fire" or "Sharp Flame".  
> [3] "Thauron" means "stinking one".  
> [4] Angband means "hells of iron".  
> [5] Maglor here uses "crafty" to mean "skilled in the craft of ship-building".  
> [6] "Valinoreans" for "Elves" is a bit of a stretch, but as they were people who lived in Valinor, it's possible.


	7. Deleted Scene: Maedhros & Frodo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way to Rohan, Maedhros and Frodo discuss wounds and despair, and how to do the impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write this scene for some time, but the muse wasn't cooperating. The characters finally decided to come out this week, so here you are! This is also my apology for the really short chapter I posted to WOTR.
> 
> Also, "the next morning" in this case is the day after Merry nearly cut his own feet off and got his first lesson in sword-fighting, which is why he's pestering Boromir in the background.

Frodo sought out Maedhros the next morning as they walked among stones and scrub bushes that were just beginning to be gilded by the sun as it rose above the mountains. For some time they walked on in companionable silence, listening to Pippin chattering to Maglor and Merry asking Boromir if he would teach them something about swordplay. Finally, Frodo broke the silence, a little nervously, by saying, "I have a question for you, but I’m not sure how to ask it without being horribly impertinent."

The corners of Maedhros’ mouth twitched upwards, in what was was evidently his idea of a smile. "Frodo Baggins, I have seen and endured far too much to be offended by a little impertinence. Ask your question."

Frodo sighed. "All right then. I’m rather a light sleeper, so I heard a bit of what you and Maglor were saying about me a few nights ago."

Maedhros’ smile became actually visible. "I should have known better than to believe you were properly asleep because it sounded so."

"Oh, I was asleep, but having grown up with Merry and Pippin as cousins, one rather learns to listen for one’s name with half an ear even asleep. It’s saved me from more than one prank, I should say. Anyway, what I meant to say was that you said something about wounds of the body and the spirit, and how mine were of the spirit. What did you mean by that?"

"Maglor could doubtless give you fairer words to the same meaning, but more or less what we were speaking of was this. All the Children of Illúvatar have both a _fëa_ and a _hröa_. In the Eldar, they are bound tightly together, but the _fëa_ rules over the _hröa_ and can only be driven from it by grievous wounds. In the same fashion, however, that which hurts the _fëa_ wounds the _hröa_ as well, and so it is that our people may perish of grief, unwounded. In mortals, the marriage of _fëa_ and _hröa_ is looser, and so it is easier for them to be parted, but it is also rarer for a wound of the _hröa_ to touch the _fëa_ with you than it is with us. From what Elrond told me, the weapon with which you were struck touched both _hröa_ and _fëa_ , the more so because you were yourself half in the unseen world when the blow was struck. Now the _hröa_ has all but healed, but the _fëa_ remembers the wound."

"Will it ever heal?"

Maedhros sighed. "Healing for the _fëa_ is not the same as healing for the _hröa,_ and does not come in the same times or ways. This," and he held up the stump of his right arm, "was once a wound which touched both _fëa_ and _hröa_ , like your knife-scar. It is healed now and does not pain me as it did through all my years in Beleriand, but even now, when the body whose hand was cut off has been ash beneath the sea for some thousands of years of the Sun, my _fëa_ bears but one hand, and so the scar remains though the wound has healed. That you will be healed in the end I do not doubt, but it may be long indeed as mortals count it. Perhaps, as it was for me, only in Mandos will you find wholeness once more. Perhaps it will come sooner. I cannot say."

Frodo was silent for some time, thinking on what he had heard, and Maedhros respected his silence. They walked on for some time thus, while the sun burned the dew off of the sparse grass and took the chill off of the winter breeze. Finally, Frodo spoke again. "I dare not compare my task to yours," he said, "but I will ask of you how one can find the strength to go on, so wounded, into a task that seemed beyond any strength even when it was taken up, and now seems hopeless indeed."

Maedhros set his good hand briefly on Frodo’s shoulder before he replied, and when he did, he spoke slowly, as one who chooses his words carefully. "In Beleriand," he said, "I knew from the day that Morgoth took me and hung me from his fortress that our war was as like as not to be a hopeless one. Thauron would doubtless wish for you and all who resist him to believe that of your errands, but you must know that it is not true. For those who have been wounded by the weapons of the Enemy, despair comes far too easily. Do not let it take you. Know that such thoughts come from the Enemy, and resist them as you would resist his orcs. Fight them for the sake of the home that you love. Fight for your cousins and your friends as I once fought for my brothers. Endure for their sake, as they will endure for yours. If that fails, fight for defiance, and go on because the Enemy would wish you to halt."

"And what of those times when it seems that there is nothing left to fight for and no power for defiance?"

Maedhros halted and knelt before Frodo, forcing the hobbit to stop also. "Is that truly your mind that you speak?"

"No," Frodo said wearily, "not yet. But it will be, sooner or later. I’m sitting on the beach watching the waves come in. They rise and recede, but every time they rise they come further in, and though they fall back every time it is never so far as they did the last time. Sooner or later they’ll drown me. I couldn’t even resist the Nazgûl. How can I hope to hide from Sauron himself?"

To Frodo’s immense surprise, Maedhros seized a handful of his shirt-front and gave him a firm shake, then pulled him forwards so that he had no choice but to meet the Elf’s eyes. "Enough of that," he said firmly and a little sharply. "You speak what the Enemy would wish you to say. You _did_ resist the Nazgûl; had you not, you would be a wraith now and the Ring would be in Thauron’s keeping. There is enough evil to be borne in the present without seeking it out in the future. Take this lesson from me if you take nothing else: one day’s despair may be defied; one day’s pain may be borne. Seek to bear the burdens of all your days at once, and they will crush you beneath their weight. Set one foot before the other, and then do it once more, until the day ends, and when you look back you will see the miles you have trodden. Spend all your day looking down the long road before you, and no journey will you ever make."

"Is that what you did? Put one foot in front of the other?"

"On the days when I was wise enough to do so, yes. On some days, I thought even as you spoke just now. If it lasted too long, Maglor would fetch Celegorm to shout sense into me as I have tried to do for you."

"Well," Frodo said, still wearily but with a little humour, mixed with what might be either hope or defiance, or perhaps both, beginning to kindle in his eyes, "then perhaps we’d better start walking. The rest of the company is looking a bit worried anyway. Would you mind putting me down?"

The corners of Maedhros’ mouth twitched again, and he released Frodo and rose to his feet. _"To battle,_ then," he said lightly, but with serious eyes.

 _"To battle,"_ Frodo replied, squaring his shoulders and thinking of the green fields of the Shire, and feeling the black waves begin to recede from his mind.


	8. Abandoned Concept: The Madness of Denethor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early draft of _The Madness of Denethor,_ but with a different ending. AKA: When Pippin fails to escape Denethor after catching him with the _palantír_ and Faramir arrives a bit ahead of schedule, the confrontation between Denethor, Boromir, Faramir, and Maedhros changes drastically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this written for weeks, but it was a spoiler for the main story so I haven't posted it. Now you know what really happens, so here you are.

Pippin had been feeling horribly useless ever since he had come to Gondor. Everyone seemed to be doing something; Boromir seemed to live entirely in the map room except when he came out to consult with Maedhros, Maedhros spent all the time he wasn’t talking to one of his brothers on a _palantir_ either advising Boromir or out somewhere doing things with the defences and armoury, and Denethor spoke to an unending line of advisors and noblemen about things which Pippin wasn’t allowed to hear. In short, Pippin had nothing to do, and nobody to talk to properly now that Merry was gone. All this meant that, when he wandered into the same corridor as Denethor, he was immediately curious, for the Steward was rarely seen outside the throne room. Besides that, Denethor looked distinctly like someone who did not want to be seen. 

The decision to follow Denethor was made almost before Pippin realised what he was doing. Ten minutes later, he concluded that it was a very foolish decision indeed, as two tall men of Minas Tirith carried him bodily into what looked like a very old guest room, deposited him unceremoniously on the floor, and locked the door behind him. He had followed Denethor all the way to the door to a massive spiral staircase, and up, up, up they had gone until Pippin thought that they must be nearly to the sky, Pippin taking _more than hobbit’s care_ to make no noise as Denethor marched steadily upwards before him. Pippin had felt thoroughly satisfied with his spying as he peered through the keyhole of the room at the very top of the tower, and discovered nothing less than that Denethor was staring intently at a _palantir_! He could not see what Denethor was looking at, but if he cracked the door just a little…

The door had let out a horrible creaking sound (how had he missed a noise like that when Denethor opened the door, Pippin wondered?), and Denethor had slammed the door, hurling Pippin back into the wall. Then had been on the dazed hobbit like a hawk before Pippin had time to take to his heels. With a hiss of "Miserable Halfling spy," Denethor had dragged him unceremoniously down the stairs like a naughty child, and delivered him to the guards to be locked up here, and now, here he was, in the middle of a nasty, draughty room that looked like it had not been inhabited for ages, with nothing to do except cool his heels and reflect on his foolishness, and wonder what was going to happen to him, and when Maedhros would notice that he was gone and come looking for him. 

When he thought that, it struck him like a blow what it was that he had really done. Denethor thought that he was spying for Maedhros. _Well, Peregrin Took_ , he thought, _look what you’ve done with your foolishness. That’s torn it! Denethor’s_ never _going to listen to Maedhros now! And what about Frodo? What if Denethor sends out soldiers to find him? Somebody has got to warn him, but if I don’t tell somebody then nobody will know to warn him of anything! Well, Pippin, your sneaking ways have got you into this mess, and you’ll just have to sneak your way out of it._

With that, Pippin collected himself as best as he could, and took a good look at the room where he’d been thrown. He had noticed from the first that it wasn’t a proper cell, more of an old guest room, and he had escaped from plenty of suspicious folk and closed rooms in the Shire. A draughty room like this one always had more than one door or window, and as often as not one of the doors had been forgotten for ages. He began peering under the dusty tapestries and clambering over the sheeted furniture, looking for anything, small or large, that promised a way out for a resourceful hobbit.

Maedhros had just come in from the outer walls of the Pelennor, where he had been lending a hand, regardless of puns, to the workers repairing the wall, when Pippin, disheveled, dusty, and evidently much alarmed, came racing into their guest rooms. "Denethor caught me!" he exclaimed.

Whatever that meant, it could be nothing good, given the Pippin’s current state. "Pippin," Maedhros said, "listen to me carefully. I need you to think carefully, and slow down, and tell me exactly what happened from the beginning." 

As soon as Maedhros had Pippin’s story straight, which did not take as long as he he feared that it might from the hobbit’s wild mein, he was striding towards the throne room as swiftly as he could, face grim, hoping that he was not too late to undo the damage Pippin had done. He scarcely noticed the patter of hobbit feet that followed him.

Boromir was pacing the throne room anxiously, waiting for Denethor, who had sent him a peremptory summons to attend him at once, and was now conspicuously absent. He was thoroughly startled, but very much pleased, to see Faramir enter instead, still clad in the travel-worn greens and browns of a Ranger of Ithilien. He had, however, only enough time to sweep Faramir into a bear hug with a shout of greeting before Denethor entered by another door, looking thunderous. Boromir swiftly let go of Faramir, who gave him a wry smile. There would be time for proper greetings later, once Denethor had gotten his report from Faramir. _Some things never change,_ Boromir thought ruefully.

As Faramir’s report went on, however, he began to worry. When Faramir said that his men had brought Frodo and Sam to him, Denethor leaned forwards in his chair eagerly, and said, "Then you have it?"

"Have what, Father?"

"The ring they carried! Did they not tell you of it?"

"They did, though by accident and not by intent, but I do not have it."

"Then you have them here?"

"No, Father. I let them go." Faramir’s confusion was clear in his voice, and Boromir winced.

"You let them go?" Denethor’s voice began to rise in wrath.

"Yes, Father. They carried letters from my brother giving them safe-conduct through Gondor on an errand of great urgency. Should I have done otherwise?"

"I ordered that this thing be brought here, to be kept safe! Do you defy my orders?"

"Forgive me, Father. I had not received your orders when I met the halflings, and so I had only the letters of safe-conduct."

"You lie!" Denethor’s face was twisted in fury. "Ever you have been _a wizard’s pupil_ and a grief to me, and now you league yourselves with the elves and their spies to doom us all! You are no son of mine!"

At that moment, Maedhros strode into the hall with a grim, set face, and said, "My lord Denethor, I fear that there has been a misunderstanding. Peregrin…"

Denethor cut him off with a roar. "So your little spy has found a way to report to you, even after I locked him away! I might have known it. And you have found your allies here in Gondor, too, even among my sons! Well, see how Gondor treats her traitors!"

With that word, he set one hand on Faramir’s shoulder, while the other went to his belt. Maedhros’ eyes widened, and he raced down the hall towards Denethor with all the speed his long legs could give him. He was halfway down the hall in an instant, but that instant was long enough, and before either Boromir or Maedhros could stop him, Denethor buried a long dagger in Faramir’s chest. Faramir looked down at the hilt that stood out from between his ribs, and then up to Denethor’s face, a look of utter confusion in his eyes. "Father?" he asked, as his knees buckled and he fell before the throne of Gondor.

With a roar like a wounded beast, Boromir sprang at Denethor, not even bothering to draw his sword. Denethor whirled to meet him, already drawing his sword, but Boromir was already on him, and Denethor’s stroke drove wide, though it scored a deep cut across Boromir’s ribs. 

All this had happened perhaps in the time it takes to count three. After another instant, Maedhros cannoned into the pair grappling on the floor, knocking Boromir off of his father. Denethor had, somehow, kept hold of his sword, but before he could ready a strike against either Boromir or Maedhros, Maedhros had drawn his own sword and buried it to the hilt in Denethor’s chest.

Pippin had been left far behind by Maedhros’ long strides as the Elf raced to the throne room to try to remonstrate with Denethor (or that was what Pippin supposed he was going to do), but had followed as fast as he could anyway, hoping that he could help explain himself. Finally, he burst through the doors of the throne room, panting. Then he halted, feet rooted to the ground by some will not his own, staring at the tableau laid out before him, which was forever after present to his memory, lit with a lurid, nightmare clarity that omitted not a single detail.

Denethor’s lifeless body, hand still clutching the hilt of a drawn sword with a bloodied edge, lay before the Steward’s chair in a spreading pool of blood. The once-white staff of his office lay beside him, discarded and unheeded. Behind him stood Maedhros, with a face as pale and impassive as white marble statues which watched sightlessly over the Steward’s corpse, methodically wiping his sword clean on his cloak.

Right before the steps to the throne knelt Boromir, cradling a body in his arms. Blood was running freely down his left side, but he seemed not to have noticed at all. Between terrible, racking sobs, Pippin caught a single phrase, repeated again and again: _"Faramir. Please, no."_

As Pippin watched, Maedhros sheathed his sword and, with one long stride, came to kneel behind Boromir, head bowed. His left arm went around Boromir’s shoulders, and he gently supported Faramir’s head with the stump of his right. In a whisper so low that Pippin could hardly catch it, he said, "Boromir, I am sorry."

Boromir turned to face the Elf, rage flashing in his eyes, and asked, "Why did you not let me kill him?"

"Because there has been enough of kinslaying already. There will be no more while I am here."

For a moment, all the strength seemed to go out of Boromir at that answer, and he buried his face in his brother’s shoulder, weeping, as Maedhros embraced them both. Then Maedhros said grimly, "Boromir, there will be time to weep after. _War now calls us._ "

Boromir’s head snapped up to meet Maedhros’ gaze. Maedhros looked back at him calmly, and said, "Think what you will of me. Hate me, if it makes your mind easier. But the enemy marches upon us. We must be ready."

Boromir grasped Maedhros’ shoulder with his free hand, and replied in a voice of steel, "We will be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. This one hurt to write. 
> 
> Please don't kill me. Actually, thank me, because I could have made the story go this way and I didn't.


	9. Into the Fray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling finds what he has hoped for all his life.

It had been a hard ride from Dale. The tall Elf-Lord pushed them, almost from the time they set foot in stirrup, driving the horses to their uttermost, but never beyond. He knew them well and understood them, better than he, Blodrin, knew his own, and never over-tired them. The horses, in turn, understood the Elf and loved him without reservation, giving him their all. Blodrin was almost envious, but he, too, loved the Elf-Lord, leaving no room for jealousy. 

He had grown up hearing the tales of the elves, taller than men and wholly other, and their great exploits of ages past. He never quite believed them, but as a child, he could not but wish they were true. Even as a man, that wish was never wholly extinguished. It remained as a dim spark, hidden deep, but still alight. 

Now, one of the Elf-Lords from the high past had appeared among them, and that spark had burst into flame. The tale of his appearance with one of the great Dwarfs had spread like wildfire through the camp. No man could conceal his curiosity, and nearly all had an excuse for passing near their general’s tent to catch a glimpse. 

As first son of Borkhul, prince of the southern hold, Blodrin needed no excuse. Though not yet 21, he had won glory in three campaigns and was already captain over a small unit of light cavalry. As such, he was a member of the general’s council, if a low one, so he was present when Caranthir claimed their allegiance. Blodrin offered it without question. Upon hearing of their ancient betrayal, shame burned with an intensity near that of his joy at beholding the Elf. He held his honor dear, as did all true men of the East, and now it was tarnished, besmirched by ancestors a hundred times removed. 

Then came the insult. He was not witness to Caranthir’s casual tale of a knife in the dark, but as soon as he heard, Blodrin was first to bear the assassin’s corpse away from the camp to be cast among the carrion. No such man deserved an honorable burial. The general was old, a man of compromise. Though noble, he would never commit his troops as he should to atone for the past, let alone the assassin’s blade. There was no choice, then, but for Blodrin to ride with Elf and Dwarf when their time came to depart. He could not command his entire horse to join him, nor reclaim honor for all his people, but he would fight with the Elf and, if he lived, stand tall among his kinsmen and bestow a title on his sons that they could forever bear with pride.

For six days they rode, resting only as necessary for the horses. They slept little and only in short stretches. Meals were taken in the saddle. Blodrin rode at the fore of their small cavalry, not willing to be separated from his liege lord. When they joined with his lord’s brother, his joy was doubled. Together, the Elves shone with a brilliance both subdued and awful. Only on the eve of battle did they stop for a whole night to eat and sleep fully. He would have stayed awake with his lord had he not been commanded to rest. His last thoughts before drifting off were of his wife and young son, and of the lieutenant by whom he commended himself to them, should he not return. Then he, and the whole of his comrades, slept deeply, trusting those who watched over them as they would their fathers. 

And now he fought as never before. Their arrival could not have been more timely. Even as they crested the last hill before the plain of Dagorlad, they could see the large contingent of their allies dwarfed by the onrushing foe. Blodrin and his comrades galloped fiercely to join a group of elves who were near to being overrun. His lord and lord’s brother raced in a different direction. Blodrin would gladly have followed, but such a storm of blinding light and swirling dark swallowed them that he knew he could not have survived their company. So he plied his scimitar and shield where he hoped they would do the most good. 

In all his campaigns, he had never beheld, let alone fought an orc. Now, they rose and fell before him in a steady stream, heedless of their own safety. They were skilled with their own cruel blades and he was hard put to it. Though he was not cut down by any of them, there was not one that did not leave a mark on his body. Blood, his and his enemies, soon covered his arms and legs, and dripped down the blade of his weapon. He knew the toll such cuts would eventually exact, but forced the thought from his mind. Now was no time to think on that. Indeed, thought itself was dangerous. It was parry and slice, cut or be cut. 

Somewhere, he heard laughter, and found to his great surprise that he was laughing out loud in chorus with the men and elves who fought next to him. In the deep recesses of his mind, he understood that here was a foe he could rejoice in slaying, for this foe, unlike any he had ever fought, was inhuman and wholly given to evil. Always before, there had been a realization that he was killing a fellow man, one like himself. He never fought with reluctance or regret, but a sobriety born of human brotherhood. Here, he abandoned himself to the killing of those not tied to him by blood. It was grim work, but almost gleeful, and he was glad to destroy evil. 

The battle wore on and on. Each new foe was fresh and he tired from the constant work, the clash of metal, the thud of blade on flesh, and the score of cuts he bore, yet his joy never dwindled. Slowly, they gave ground to their enemy. Their own force was hardly diminished, but the overwhelming number of the orcs forced them back. In the distance, he occasionally saw great flying beasts diving towards their army, their cries momentarily cooling his fighting blood. He was glad when he heard the cry of “The Eagles! The Eagles!”, yet even then he could not spare his attention for a moment, lest he fall, and by his fall, allow the foe to come one step nearer his lord. 

That was all the resolve he needed. Blodrin fought for his home, wife and family, yes, for his own life, certainly, but at the core of his being, the Elf-Lord stood, burning brightly. It might consume him; no matter. If he lived, he would carry forever a dream and hope fulfilled beyond his imagining. If he died, he could ask no greater death than protecting his lord. Those were truly a death worth dying, and a life worth living.

_When he was found after the battle, faint with loss of blood and exertion, but living still, his lord came to him, laid his hand on his breast, and said, “well done.” And he closed his eyes and rested._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive, or, if you can, enjoy, the stylistic difference between Morwen and me. We share many things in common, but style is not one of them. 
> 
> This deleted scene came from a discussion we had about what that last desperate battle must have been like for one of the many mere mortals on the field. Morwen generously provided the names for the Easterlings.


	10. In the Hall of the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blodrin and his companions experience the hospitality of Gondor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blodrin showed up again and wanted to tell the story of the victory celebration from his perspective. Many thanks to Morwen for giving me permission to play a bit in the WOTR sandbox.
> 
> Enjoy!

The time immediately following the battle of the field of Dagorlad was hardly less confusing than the battle itself. Blodrin and his comrades were scarcely aware they had won. One moment, they were immersed in the chaos of fighting; sword and shield, parry and cut, dodge and feint, blood and pain and the grim joy that overpowered the knowledge that death lay waiting at the end. Then the enemy simply stopped fighting. There was not an orc who did not stop in his tracks and stare, their heads turned to one side as though listening intently. Blodrin’s cohort was not slow to make the most of this odd behavior, but before they could land more than a blow, all of nature was rent by a shriek that deafened them. Earth and air shook with a violence greater than any earthquake. Swords fell to the ground and hands covered ears as man, elf, and even orc tried in vain to stop the sound of that cry.

For long moments, the sound hung in the air and threatened to overthrow his reason, when, finally, it ceased as abruptly as it began. Blodrin found himself kneeling, his head between his hands and nearly touching the ground. The vulnerability of his position shocked him to his feet, hands reaching for the nearest weapon, before he realized there was no one left to fight. The enemy was fleeing from the field. They ran pell mell, knocking over and stampeding one another. Sunlight came slowly at first, then broke open on to the field. The flying beasts that had harassed their allies came crashing to the ground with enormous thudding sounds, and giant, manlike creatures froze in their steps, never to move again. 

Then the ground shook again as an explosion broke out from behind where the gates of the enemy once stood. The very top of a distant mountain had blown free from the rest and smoke and flame rose into the air above where it had been. A cry of joy swept through the army of the allies as the realization of their victory dawned on them. Only then did Blodrin relax his guard and lower his sword. 

Almost the next he knew, he was lying on a cot in a large tent that housed many wounded. Leeches and nurses tended them, moving softly from bed to bed, inspecting bandages, administering medicines, or merely giving comfort. He looked down to see that his own body was adorned with numerous bandages and that his left arm was splinted, though he did not remember breaking it. He was aware of a burning thirst and leaned up to call out for water. Even as he did, a soft, stern voice to his right spoke to him in a strange accent. “Now you just relax there. You’re not fit to be up. I have some wine for you and then you lay down again.”

The nurse plied him with a small goblet of deeply scented, strong red wine. The taste of foreign herbs told him that it was strongly medicated, and his first thought was of some treachery, but his thirst overruled his reason and he drank deeply before falling back into a deep slumber.

When next he woke, he felt considerably better. This time, he saw several of his comrades near him, some as heavily bandaged as he was. Two were sitting up, and as he stirred, they turned to him and smiled, glad to see him whole, if a little the worse for wear. He sat up also and they began to catch up with each other and share their stories of the battle. They had not progressed far, however, when an elf appeared at the door of the hospital tent and, after briefly surveying the inhabitants, made directly for their small group. "If you will forgive the intrusion, your presence is required by Caranthir at the great hall of Minas Tirith to celebrate our victory," he said. "The main host departed yesterday. If we leave now, you’ll just be in time.” His bearing was regal and his speech courteous, but even without his deportment, death alone would have kept Blodrin from accompanying him to meet his liege-lord. After a brief meal and more medicinal wine, Blodrin and his fellows left the tent behind the elf. 

Those of their men who had not been seriously wounded had waited anxiously in their own tents nearby, and were greatly relieved to see their fellows well enough to join them. They had been invited to return to Minas Tirith with the main host, but would never leave any of their own behind. Their time had been spent retrieving, feeding, and grooming their mounts as the others recovered. Only two of their original cohort had fallen in the battle. Before leaving the field, they stopped and paid homage to the two who fell, along with their allies who had been slain. All were buried with honor, their graves surrounded with the trophies they had won from their enemies.

With these solemnities behind them, they took the road south to Minas Tirith, accompanied by others whom the leeches grudgingly deemed well enough to travel. The men of the East kept somewhat apart from the men of Gondor and Rohan, yet still the ride from Dagorlad was as enjoyable as the ride from Dale had been strained. They rode gently, so as to not disturb their wounds, and they jested and boasted of their exploits on the field and speculated on what sort of feast lay ahead. It was decided that, whatever it could be, it would not compare to their home. Even so, they determined that they would be gracious guests and speak no ill of their hosts.

Their homeland was not without its glories. Monuments to the great men and events of their past occupied prominent places, as is only fitting for any great people. Blodrin’s father was lord of no mean edifice in their land, so he was used to pomp and glory. But at their first glimpse of the spires of Minas Tirith and the great prow that jutted through her midst from the mountain, all thought of their monuments faded. The friendly banter they had maintained over the course of their ride ceased and they were filled with awe. That she had suffered greatly in the recent struggle was clear; her wounds were open for all to see. Yet her glory was undiminished and outshone even the greatest of the cities of the East. 

As they neared the gate, the elf who led them called out from his saddle “Men of Gondor, attend these, who fought valiantly in the battle of the Field of Dagorlad, who shed their blood with thee and the elves. Honor them, for they come to attend the feast.” At his words, trumpets sounded from the top of the walls, and a cry went up “Hail and welcome, brothers in the war of the ring.” The makeshift gate was moved aside, and an honor guard marched out, lining the way on both sides, swords drawn to salute them. Blodrin and his brethren came to attention in the saddle in response to the greeting, saluting in return as they rode through the gate. The honor guard did not end there. A pair of cavalrymen in full armor, gleaming in the afternoon sun, greeted them, turned, and led them up through the city. 

They were led to barracks that were outfitted more for a general than a cohort of cavalry, and their mounts were taken and stabled as befitting the high honor of the men that rode them. Those who called Minas Tirith their home parted from them and rode to their own dwellings. The elf bid all who remained make their preparations with haste. The men bathed quickly in fresh, hot water, and fresh clothing was offered them, which they accepted gladly. Once washed and clad, a page conducted them on the short path to the main hall.

If Blodrin was awed at the sight of the white city, he was overwhelmed by what met his eyes there. A great host of men and elves, with others even stranger to their eyes, filled a hall larger than some towns he knew that was bedecked with banners and pennants. The smells of roast game and fowl hung in the air, and tables were set with silver plate and goblets, with ewers full of wine. As he and his fellows prepared to sit at the nearest table, the page shook his head and said, “If you please, sire, your place is further up.” Blodrin stood back up, somewhat puzzled, and the page conducted him and his brethren to a table near the head of the hall. 

As they passed, those who were already at table stood and bowed their heads in greeting. The page led them to a table where Caranthir stood to greet them, the faintest of smiles touching his lips. "I thought you might sleep through the feast," he quipped, then more seriously, "I am glad to see you here." Then a tall man appeared to his right, crowned with a band of gold, and clad in sable with a great white tree across his breast and a great sword belted at his waist. His face was grave, but his grey eyes smiled. 

The king, as Blodrin deemed him to be, spoke to them in their own tongue. “Friends, this table has been laid in your honor, for never have the men of the East fought side by side with the Dunedain. Indeed, there has been enmity between our peoples of old. But you have shed blood, and some of you have died for our sake, and here I give you my hand and my word. Let there evermore be peace between us.” And he held out his hand to them. 

At first, none moved, but then Blodrin stepped forward and offered his hand in return. “I cannot speak for all my people,” he said, “but as prince of the southern hold, I give you peace in return, and will be an emissary for you, to take your offer to our home.”  
“What may I call you?”, asked the king.  
“I am Blodrin, son of Borkhul, lord of Urkad,” he said, standing tall and proud.  
“Then welcome, Blodrin, son of Borkhul. Aragorn, king of Gondor and lord of Minas Tirith greets you as friend. For your valor on our behalf, I grant you and your fellow men, if you will, to be made knights of Gondor at your pleasure, with no other duty laid on you than that you accept our hospitality when you are in our lands.”  
“Let it be, even as you say, your majesty,” said Blodrin, and bowed his head.

Then King Aragorn greeted all of the men in turn, and they bowed to him, before he resumed his place at the head of the feast. Caranthir saw that they were well tended to, then he joined the king with many of his kind.

The feast was unlike any that Blodrin had ever known, for Minas Tirith brought forth all her riches for her guests. There was food to satisfy every taste, and the wine flowed in rivers. The men of Gondor were eager to greet their new allies, and with much patience and grace and laughter, each spoke brokenly the other’s language to their mutual delight. Elves and Dwarfs joined them and those who had fought side-by-side recognized one another, and many words of thanks and embraces were exchanged, with mutual appreciation of swordsmanship and valor.

Their mirth lasted late into the evening, until two figures, an Elf Lord and Lady, rose from their places at the dais and began to speak. Much of what they said was strange to Blodrin, even excepting their speech. He had no knowledge of the events of the past weeks and months, but it was clear that great deeds had been wrought within these lands. Great honor and wondrous gifts were bestowed on some who appeared to be little more than children in his eyes, yet they were set as equals beside the mighty, including the brothers of his liege-lord. His wonder deepened further when the one they called Maedhros stood forth to receive a crown of copper and steel. The light that flowed, first from him, then others, and last from a glass held aloft by a halfling, was warmer, brighter, and sweeter than any fire, but did not blind nor burn. There was no beauty in all the East, save that of the sun, to rival this. 

Wonder piled upon wonder when a harp was struck, and the hall fell silent as a brother of his lord, called Maglor, stood forth and raised his hands in a gesture that commanded the attention of all. This Maglor then began to sing, and such a song that Blodrin thought his heart might burst from the sheer glory of it, and all he beheld. In the lay of Maglor, Blodrin learned all that he could have asked of what had transpired: of the distant land called the Shire and the people who dwelt there; of the deeds of the lords of men and their armies in this land; of the peril that threatened them all, even his own though they knew it not; of the terrible part his own people might have played; of the one ring and its destruction; of wizards, demons, kingdoms in the trees, and much, much more. And though the elf sang in the tongues of his own kind and the west, yet Blodrin understood all, as if all was sung into his own thoughts and dreams. Such was the singing that he saw as well as heard, and there was laughter and grief, tears and joy until there was no emotion known to man he had not felt. 

When the bard ceased, hours or perhaps days later, for time seemed to stop while he sang, the hall was silent again except for the last notes from the harp as they echoed from the walls. Then Maglor let his hands fall, and slowly they all rose to their feet. The king began to clap his hands in approval, which was taken up first by those who stood with him, then the tables nearest, and then the hall thundered with the sounds of acclamation. Maglor bowed, once, and returned to his seat, and the applause followed him. As he sat, so did all others, and they returned to their feasting. Yet their appetite for meat and drink had been sated, and so, in groups large and small, the crowd began to disperse for what remained of the night. 

At length, Blodrin and the men with him rose to depart, but before they could go, Caranthir returned, this time with him who had been crowned high king of the Noldor. Fire streamed away from him, and the light of the hall centered on him wherever he turned. He took in the cohort and bowed deeply to them. “There is no need to rehearse the deeds of the past or the pain they brought. As small a host as you may be, your valor has been told me, and it far outstrips your numbers. I doubt not that, had you not aided us in our time of need, many more of our brethren would have fallen than did. More than that, very few may have lived to see our victory at all. Any debt that may have been between us is no more. The treachery of the past is forgiven. For as much as has been forgiven me, I can do no less for others.” 

Then Lâkhad spoke, who had been more reluctant than any to accept the kindnesses offered them. "We thank you, my lord, for your courtesy, but even more, for your protection. Until this night, nay this moment, we knew not the peril we faced. For if Sauron, the accursed, had won this war, we would not have enjoyed his favor long, and the freedom of the men of the East would have turned to slavery beneath his heel. We are honored to have been of service to thee, and I will gladly serve thee again should need arise." With that, he drew a dagger from his belt, knelt, and laid it at the feet of both Maedhros and Caranthir.

The light around Maedhros brightened, though it still did not blind, and he reached down and raised Lâkhad to his feet. "May that time of need never come, but may the day we enjoy your fellowship never be far." And he bowed once more to them, smiled, and left. One of Caranthir’s eyebrows arched, ever so slightly, and he said “So speaks the high king. Sleep well. We will speak again ere you depart,” and he called a page to escort them back to the barracks. No little time the remainder of that night was spent discussing their suspicion that their liege-lord had spoken with sarcasm.

Their time in Minas Tirith lasted many weeks. In that time, they met often with Caranthir and his brothers, and learned much of the ways of the men of Gondor. The king made them knights, as he had promised, and they witnessed with great joy the union of the new king and his queen. Blodrin turned frequently to pen and parchment to preserve the memory of all that transpired, not wishing to forget even the smallest part. In this, he was aided by one of the halflings who, himself, had participated in much, and wrote, also, the history of the deeds that took place.

When at last their company made for home, it was with such words and tokens of affection that they were loath to leave their new friends. Promises of visits were exacted and exchanged, and many gifts were bestowed on them. Even the king and queen of Gondor attended their departure, as did the high king of the elves. Last to part from them was Caranthir. “The oaths of your fathers to me are fulfilled," he said. "You have been true to me. Well done. I thank you.” Before Blodrin could object, he continued. “That does not mean I release you. The king has laid upon you no duty but to receive his hospitality. I am not the king. I may well call upon you again. Be sure you are ready.” Whereupon he nodded to them and returned to the city. Their last sight of him that day was his tall, straight figure walking surely to the gate, his broad axe upon his back.

When, after many days, and some slight adventures, they came to their lands in the east, they were received with great joy. They were feasted as richly as the land knew and were glad to be home. They shared the strange tales of all that had befallen them after joining the Elf Lord, and were believed by most, though some, especially those who had traveled west with them but had not joined in the battle, treated those tales with suspicion. They also found that not all were eager for peace with the West. But when a year passed and brought with it a rich embassy from the king of Gondor, the first of many such, suspicions were forgotten and enmity set aside. The visits were returned and slowly a great friendship grew over the years between Khând and Gondor.

As he had known, Blodrin and his fellows were possessed of titles unique in all the East. They, and their sons for many generations after them, were known as the Sons of Bor. Blodrin’s writings came to be known as the Book of the House of Borkhul, and entered into the legends of the land, told even to the end of the age.


	11. Abandoned Concept: Maedhros & Sauron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bullet point fic that I wrote for actina13, who faithfully asked for a Maedhros v. Sauron fight multiple times, when I thought that there would be no appearance of Sauron at the Battle of Dagorlad. This is actually an AU of the entire AU, hence its outline form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only just realised that I have a whole alternate concept that is no longer spoiler-y if I post it, so here, have an apology for the complete lack of updates on the main fic lately. I AM working on the next chapter. Really I am. Hopefully it will be out soon, but in the interim, have this.

  * At the Council of Elrond, Maedhros decides that the Mordor mission is the single most important thing they can do. He goes on it himself.
  * Curufin goes to Gondor.
  * Saruman v Gandalf still plays out along the same lines. Saruman is dead, but so, as far as Maedhros knows, is Gandalf. Maedhros, unlike Curufin, doesn’t get shot in the battle, but, again, the hobbits are his highest priority, and the ambush doesn't bode well for how it would go if they tried to take on Saruman.
  * Celegorm meets them on the border of Mordor with his report and then heads to Gondor to help Curufin out with the siege.
  * Alternately, something happens to split the Fellowship up and land Frodo & Sam with Maedhros, and he's the only one who can take them to Mordor, so they just have to deal with it.
  * Maedhros, who knows that Sauron has some kind of border alert system and also knows that if HE trips it, Sauron won’t go looking for hobbits, goes through the pass of Cirith Ungol with the hobbits.
  * Maedhros does not allow the party to split up. Shelob never gets a chance to go after Frodo. Neither does Gollum. The orcs of Minas Morgul, however, are still patrolling the area, and they may be unobservant, but Maedhros is pretty conspicuous.
  * Maedhros trusts Sam to deal with the Ring and goes to deal with the orcs. The orcs lose. Spectacularly.
  * In the spirit of keeping Sauron’s attention very firmly fixed on him, Maedhros beelines for Barad-Dur. On the way up, he slashes his way through a lot of orcs and at least two ringwraiths.
  * He comes through, not exactly unscathed, but more or less in one piece. Sauron is very very unhappy and also very very distracted.
  * Massive duel ensues, up and down the stairs and in and out of the corridors. Barad-Dur is pretty effectively trashed. Sauron is stronger, but his entire right side is withered and mummified and he limps. Maedhros is faster, and he’s smart enough to use the low-ceilinged corridors that Sauron never walks into to dodge, and he wears Sauron down one cut and nick at a time.
  * Sauron loses. Maedhros is exhausted and not exactly in mint condition, but he's also not dead. He high-tails it out of Barad Dur to go find the hobbits.
  * Meanwhile, Frodo and Sam haul for Mt. Doom, followed by a very frustrated Gollum who sees this as his first opportunity to get at the Ring without the tall terrifying Elf present.
  * The destruction of the Ring plays out more or less as it does in canon.
  * Maedhros sees Barad-Dur crumble, figures out what is happening, and beelines for the Cracks of Doom. He shows up shortly after the Ring’s destruction, drags the hobbits away from the eruption, and calls for help via _palantír_.
  * Gandalf shows up on an eagle per the books, followed on foot by most of Gondor’s forces, who are very confused as to why they haven’t been opposed by anyone except some equally confused Easterlings, and as to what happened that made the Towers of the Teeth crumble.
  * The ending proceeds more or less as in WOTR, except with Celegorm still alive. Galadriel gives him a bow too. He and Legolas have an archery contest. I don't know who wins, but they very nearly come to blows over it and subsequently maintain a cautious mutual respect and an absolutely savage ongoing archery competition.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering why Maedhros didn’t do this in the main fic, despite its lower-casualty outcome in the end: he’s a calculated risk-taker, not prone to rushing into things, and despite his remarkable personal prowess, all the stuff we see him do in the Silm has to do with organising armies. He doesn’t ever go in for a hand-to-hand "duel of the fates" with everything hanging on one person. That’s more Fingolfin’s style, and we all know how well that worked for him. This plan would depend, really, on Maedhros and Sam and Frodo, and them only, and if they blew it, the plan would be blown for everyone. Maedhros just doesn’t do stuff like that. Callous as it sounds, he prefers a plan with higher casualties and lower risk of failure to a plan with lower casualties and higher risk of failure, especially if the first one comes with a feasible backup and the second doesn’t. Also, in fairness to him, Celegorm haring off to go challenge Sauron was emphatically not part of the original plan.
> 
> If anybody wants to write this as an actual fic I'd love to see it.


	12. The Wedding Singer?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty Python makes a very brief, very unwelcome appearance at the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? He just showed up and I had to do something with him.

Before the King could speak, there was a rustling in the crowd as a voice could be heard softly humming, as though warming up before a song. The guests stepped back to reveal a tall, thin, rather homely young man with dreamy eyes and an unusually large nose, gazing soulfully at the newly wed King and Queen.

As though on cue, a melody could be heard, strings playing softly as from a distance. The homely youth motioned with one arm, turned to face the distance, and opened his mouth. What issued forth, though, was not the thin, reedy tenor that all expected, but a soft, metallic, almost musical thunk, followed by the less musical sound of a ninety-eight pound weakling collapsing in a heap.

Aragorn looked, well, not disapprovingly, but with amused concern at a blushing Sam Gamgee, who was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide a frying pan behind his back, while two tall, red-headed figures tried, equally unsuccessfully, to duck behind him.

The crowd rejoined, mostly ignoring the…unattractive…young man, except to make sure they did not step on the now deeply snoring figure. The soft, phantom melody that had momentarily threatened their intense, quiet joy faded faster than breath on a glass, replaced by the very real presence of King Aragorn of Gondor and Queen Arwen. The King lifted his voice and spoke to his subjects, 

"I give you your Queen, the Lady Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond Halfelven, Lord of Rivendell."

The guests erupted into applause, the palace doors opened, and as the royal couple proceeded down the aisle, the King nodded slightly and trumpets broke out in a fanfare announcing the beginning of their reign to a weary world, ready for them to take their rightful place in the history and legend of Middle Earth.

As the crowd dispersed, one might have overheard one of the guests posing a question to another: “what was his name again?”  
“I think it was something like Alex…no…Harold…no, wait, I have it…it’s Herbert.”  
“Herbert?”  
“Yes, Herbert.”  
“Strange name, that.”  
“Yes. His father built a castle on the south of Eriador.”  
“Isn’t it a bit swampy out there?”  
“Oh yes.”  
“I see. Well, let’s hurry. I don’t want to miss any cake.”  
“Neither do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda how I feel about Aragorn singing at the end of the movie. Aragorn does NOT sing at his own wedding. And he is VERY careful about who does.


	13. Deleted Scene: The Desolation of Lórien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forces of Rivendell did not simply spring into existence at the Battle of Fangorn Forest. How did they manage to get there, just in the nick of time, and what might they have found on the road?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have the first of the post-WOTR deleted scenes. Hope y'all enjoy!

"My lord," a clear voice rang out in distress from the front of the column.

Elrond urged his horse forward from where he had been riding beside Halbarad of the Dúnedain and Erestor of the Havens, and found a scout riding to meet him. "Smoke rises from Lórien, my lord," the Elf said as soon as he appeared.

"That is grim news, but not unexpected," Elrond replied. "The Enemy has long held Moria. Now that we gather to strike at him, he will use all the force he can command to hinder us."

"It is not the smoke of battle, my lord," the scout said, and Elrond saw that he was young — too young to have seen the great wars of the Second Age — and that tears were on his cheek. "All the forest is burning, or I am no woodsman."

They had ridden on as they spoke, and now they crested one of the low spurs of the Misty Mountains that thrust out towards Anduin over the plain, and Elrond saw what the scout had doubtless seen. A great pall of grey-brown smoke lay heavily on the lands below them, and already the smell of burning came to their nostrils. Lórien — what had once been Lórien — was mostly shrouded by the smoke, but where there should have been golden _mellyrn_ trees rising up from the shadows, there were none. Beneath the smoke, nothing could be seen to move. Elrond said no word, but urged his horse onward, and behind him the column hastened forward, to bring aid to Lórien — or to avenge its people if they had fallen.

By nightfall they had come to the borders of what had once been a fair forest. Here and there trees still stood, blackened and singed perhaps beyond restoration, but by far the most of them were fallen and consumed by the fierce flames. In many places the mounds of coals that had once been trees were still smouldering and smoking. No living thing could be seen amid the ruins, either Elf or Man or Orc. The dead Orcs were many, but the fallen Elves were not few, though some at least of them seemed to have been laid down with respect rather than left where they fell.

As Elrond looked about in dismay with Glorfindel beside him, wondering what tale of woe this silent world of smoke and ash would tell if it had voice, Halbarad came riding up out of the gloom. "There is a great burnt and trampled track leading south over the Silverlode towards Fangorn and Rohan, my lord," he said. "It has utterly blotted out whatever tracks it may overlay, but I followed it a little way and there are orcs that were slain by elven arrows lying by its side. I do not believe that the folk of Lórien have all perished or been scattered here."

"Nor do I," Elrond replied. "There are not enough slain here, for one thing. But I do not like this burning track. Orcs might fire Lórien if they could, but they would not set fire to the grass behind them as they went."

Glorfindel looked very grim. "No, they would not," he said. "And I like this no more than do you. But I do not think we have any choice. We must ride to the succour of Lórien. What comes then will come. We knew what might come of riding out to this war."

"Truly spoken," Elrond said. "Those who remain in this place are now beyond our help. Let us seek out those whom we can still aid. Forward!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the muse! And don't forget that I'm still accepting prompts for the deleted/alternate scenes. I'm most likely to write something that takes place over the timeline of WOTR, but I'll at least consider doing something with pre- or post-WOTR suggestions.


	14. Deleted Scene: Boromir & Faramir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir teases Faramir about Éowyn. Fits in the middle of Ch 38 after the conversation with Aragorn, but didn’t go there because it might spoil the mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some fluff and humour to make up for the last chapter!

"So, you are in no haste to take up the role of Steward, eh?" Boromir asked with a smile.

Faramir looked strangely at him as he replied, "No. You are the right heir of the Stewardship and I have never aspired to it. Indeed I would welcome a little time to learn the duties of the office ere we once again speak of my taking it up."

"A little time to learn the duties of your office. Hmph. And all this has nothing to do with the fair lady with whom you walk in the gardens of a morning."

"Boromir, it was perfectly natural for me to speak to the Lady Éowyn while we were in the Houses of Healing together. It would have indeed been uncourteous of me not to speak to a lady of such valour. But it need not mean any more than that."

Boromir’s smile had grown wider the longer Faramir spoke. "The most natural thing in the world. I am happy for you both."

"Boromir!" Faramir said, in a tone equal parts pleading and remonstrative.

"Faramir!" Boromir said, solemnly.

"The lady has not made her opinion of me known," Faramir said at last. "Please do not speak to her of this, or to anyone else, yet."

Boromir mimed sewing his lips shut, in a gesture he had not affected since they were teenagers together. Faramir shook his head wearily. "Have you begun to grow backward down the years, brother?" he asked.

Boromir laughed. "The war is ended, Faramir, ended in victory. A year ago we would all have thought that impossible. Should I not be merry? I had little enough time for boys’ pranks when I was a boy; surely you will not begrudge me a little time regained."

Faramir turned a suspicious eye on his brother. "You and the Elves and the Hobbits, it seems. Do not think that I have heard none of the rumours of strange doings in the Citadel."

Boromir laughed again until his sides ached. "I could tell you that I had nothing to do with any such matters," he said, "but you would only disbelieve me."

"Yes," said Faramir, "I would." 

There was a pause, and then he continued, "You spoke as though the Lady Éowyn returned my regard."

Boromir shook his head. "She waits for you upon the wall or in the garden every morning, little brother. She cares for you."

Faramir looked uncertain but hopeful. Boromir clapped him on the shoulder — carefully, for though his wound was healed now it was still tender — and they walked on contentedly together in silence.


	15. Alternate Scene: The Giving of Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli ride on the road to Dunharrow, Celeborn and Galadriel give them gifts to use upon their road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just before the beginning of Chapter 28; this would have taken the place of the conversation in which Legolas and Gimli discuss their gifts.

"We have but little of our ancient treasure now," Celeborn said, "for many things we could not bear out of Lórien without great time and labour, but such things as we have we will give to aid you on your quest, for you go now into great peril and darkness, and we would not have you depart without some things which may serve you in that darkness."

Galadriel then beckoned to one of the maidens who attended her, and she brought forth two bundles, wrapped hastily in cloth that they might be the more easily carried. "First," she said, "for Aragorn, there is this, wrought for you by the smiths of our realm ere our fall, and borne with us in our flight." And unwrapping the first bundle, she brought out a jewelled sheath made for his sword Andúril, with the name of the sword set on it in Elvish letters. "The blade that is drawn from this sheath shall not be stained or broken even in defeat. May it serve you well."

Aragorn took the sheath and buckled it on his belt, and set Andúril therein, and though the jewels had gleamed brightly when it lay in the hands of Galadriel, they seemed to dim now, and reflected no light that might reveal him to unfriendly eyes.

"Second," Celeborn said, "for Legolas of the Woodland Realm, I have this," and he lifted from the second bundle a long bow, curiously carven and strung with a string of elf-hair. "in acknowledgement of the great skill of our woodland kin. This, too, I hope shall be of service to you in your journey."

And Legolas stood forward and took the bow, which was longer and stronger than that which he bore, and thanked Celeborn and Galadriel with gracious words. 

"But what gift shall a Dwarf ask of the Elves?" Galadriel asked, turning to Gimli. "Our treasures are few, and cannot compare to what is yours in your mountain home, and long have our peoples been estranged, and yet we would end that estrangement this day if we could."

Gimli looked long upon the Lady, and in the end he answered, "The gift I would ask is one that none but thou, Lady, canst give. I cannot ask it, but if it is permitted to name my desire, I should say a single hair from thy golden head, which surpasses all the gold of the earth as the stars of the sky do the earth’s gems, for you say we shall walk a dark road, and indeed the shadows gather over all the world around us, and I would have upon that road some reminder of the light that once shone upon the earth."

Then there was silence indeed, for none knew how such a request might be taken, but Galadriel smiled, and for a moment her face grew young and merry, like a lass dancing in a green field with flowers in her hair, and the shadow of pain which she had borne seemed to be lightened. "I bade thee name thy desire," she said, "and how shall I refuse a request at once so bold and so courteous? Let none say that the Dwarves have no skill in their words. May the gift that I give you serve to remind you of light in the darkness into which you go, and may some of the virtues of Lórien which was go with it, and with you." 

And she undid one of her long tresses, and cut three hairs from her head, and set them in Gimli’s hand. Then her face grew solemn again, and she said, "The time of your departure draws nigh, and beyond it I cannot see. A shadow is laid upon your paths, and indeed upon all paths, now, and my sight cannot pierce it. If we should not meet again upon this hither shore, I bid all of you now farewell, and give you once more the thanks of the people of Lórien for your great valour upon our behalf."

Gimli bowed low, and found no words to say. "Farewell, Lady," said Aragorn. "My sight is but a shadow of yours, and but little can I see of Middle-Earth even unshadowed, but I do not think this shall be our last meeting. At the least, I think, we shall all stand together at the end."

"Farewell, Lady of Lórien," said Legolas. "I give you my greetings and my father’s, and those of all the Woodland Realm. Know that we fight with you, even if it be upon another field."

And with that he bowed, a prince acknowledging a queen, and the three travellers mounted their horses and rode out to where the Sons of Elrond awaited them with the Dúnedain of Arnor. Then together, under the shadow of clouds, they turned their steps to dark Dunharrow and the road that led under the mountain.


End file.
